Free The Last Dragonlord by Joanne Bertin Page B

the corner into the hall. The woman had a pinched face, with a tight-lipped mouth that had certainly never smiled. She looked as though she smelled a dead rat three days after the cat had hidden it.
    Linden blinked in surprise. This Gevianna didn’t look the sort to romp with a little boy and a wolfhound.
    She wasn’t. And she wasn’t Gevianna, as he found when Rann sighed and said, “Good day, Lady Beryl.” Then, to Linden, “Dragonlord, this is my governess.”
    “My lady,” Linden began. “Prince Rann—”
    Lady Beryl cut him off. “Come with me, Your Highness. It’s time for your lessons.”
    A quick pressure of the thin arms around his neck and then Rann twitched, asking to be set down. Linden obliged. The governess snatched Rann’s hand and turned away—but not before Linden saw her expression change. Now she looked like a cat that had a baby bird fall from a tree straight into its paws.
    She walked so fast Rann had to trot to keep up, hopping at every third step. His shoulders slumped as he pattered along, head down.
    Linden called after her, “Lady Beryl, it would seem best if Prince Rann—”
    She kept walking. “I believe I know what’s best for the child, Dragonlord.” She made the title sound like an obscenity. “Good day.”
    He stared as Rann and his governess disappeared around the corner, then glanced sideways at the guards. They stared intently at nothing.
    “Ah,” he said under his breath. He looked thoughtfully at Captain Tev, one eyebrow raised. After a long moment Tev
met his eyes. The captain gave a tiny nod and a wry smile and opened the door for him.
    It seemed Dragonlords were not in favor with Lady Beryl. As he entered the council chamber once again, Linden wondered how many others in Casna shared her feelings.

Eight
    The door to the gardens was open. He could smell the roses from the maze on the breeze. Somewhere in the nearby darkness the brass chimes hanging from one of the peach trees rang softly. Linden sat with his back to the dining table, looking out into the warm night, rolling the stem of a silver goblet between his fingers.
    He’d never known of such chimes before coming to Casna. The first night he’d heard them, the sweet sound had lured him into the garden until he’d found the source. Entranced, he’d called Aran, the house steward, and questioned him.
    “They’re from Assantik, Your Grace,” the steward had told him. “A trader brought the first about two years ago; they immediately became all the rage among the high-born. A pleasant sound, isn’t it, my lord? Very soothing.”
    Soothing indeed. Linden yawned. He must remember to get some and bring them to the Lady; she would enjoy them. So would Lleld. He drank, savoring the wine and the melodious chiming.
    Memories of Rann’s haggard face sprang up to shatter the tranquil moment. The muscles of Linden’s neck and shoulders knotted with the remembered tensions of the council chamber. He shook his head angrily.
    What is wrong with the boy that he could take such a turn for the worse? Isn’t there a Healer at the palace to attend him?
    Linden slouched down in the chair, his long legs straight out before him. He studied his boot toes and came to a decision.
    There must be a Healer, blast it—and I’m going to talk to him or her. Tonight.
    “Aran,” he called aloud. When the house steward appeared, Linden said, “Tell Captain Jerrell that I wish to return to the palace, but not to rouse the full escort. He and one other soldier will do.”
     
    The young woman pulled her hooded cloak tighter as she hurried through the starlit gardens, clinging to the pools of deeper darkness by the walls. Gods, how she hated these meetings! It always felt as though eyes watched her, eyes that belonged to creatures best unnamed. Tales that her grandmother had told long ago came back to haunt her and the flesh at the back of her neck prickled.
    At last she reached the part of the gardens known as the ladies’ bower.